


Tiptoe

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternative Universe - Spy, Angst, F/M, John Tries, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nonlinear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Smut, Spoilers Not Mentioned in Tags, Spy John Watson, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Violence, mentions of BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: "Tell me: is this the way it's supposed to be? The soft drizzle of the piano in the background; the hesitant thrum of chatter floating into the room from downstairs, and even the cat skulking by the door. That was all planned, was it? Don't make me laugh. You didn't know what you were doing from the start."That, John conceded, was true.As John had initially embarked on plotting out the foreseeable future of his life, he had made the perfectly reasonable mistake of calculating without considering the impending doom of a strange anomaly. Or rather, an anomaly fresh out of whatever public school catered for men who wore mysterious grey coats, took jobs in places that were far above their pay grade, and had an unusual taste for all things morbid. That was beside the point: this was John's hold on his lies, his livelihood, and his love that were trickling through his fingers. Now, there was no hope for any of it, and John was confident that he was going to remain in the clutches of the trickiest of friends. Dramatic to the extreme; the only thing stopping him from getting what he wanted.Which, now that he was in the midst of it, was more than a little bit rubbish. In his opinion.





	1. Monday 22nd of December, 2003

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I hope this first chapter is alright - if anyone has any comments/criticisms, please don't hesitate to let me know! Also, can I please direct you to this: http://nhaatrarlyie.tumblr.com/post/161769849533/fanfic-commissions
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> \- Natalie x

"You're bringing this up? Now?" The snarl was unmistakable, like a wolf advancing on its prey. Rather than listen to his oxfords pound and click across the laminate hospital floor, John suddenly felt as though he was tiptoeing carefully across a forest clearing, avoiding the littering of pine cones as he attempted to spot the predator through an imaginary thicket of trees. He sighed, and his briefcase collided with his calf. 

"Oh for fu...” He groaned and then decided to change tact. There was no use in arguing with her; it would only make things more awkward between them. He did have to go home at some point, after all; he’d vowed that he'd never spend Christmas with Harry again after the previous year, in which they'd both been nursing particularly brutal break-ups. All John remembered was waking up on Boxing Day, on Harry’s kitchen counter, surrounded by empty shot glasses. "No, no I'm not. Look, can I-?" 

He was shot down almost instantly, flinching away from his phone as Mary roared. A few feet away from him, another doctor turned to a nurse and mumbled: “marriage problems.” John pretended not to hear. 

"No, you bloody well can't. We're having this conversation now, and you're not avoiding it."

John closed his eyes as he bit his tongue, willing himself not to say something that would get him in trouble. The anger and annoyance John was feeling came out in a short angry huff, and he shouldered the double doors open. They slammed against the wall, and a visitor started yelling at him about it, despite how miserable he looked. 

“My great-aunt is trying to rest!” She scoffed, standing in the doorway to a separate ward and causing a much louder raucous than John had. John ignored her, storming past. 

"I'm sorry, babe, what was that? I completely missed you,” John sighed, willing for the conversation, or at least the shouting, to stop. 

"Don't do this, John,” Mary sighed, practically pleading with him. “Everyone always feels a bit shit around Christmas. But can you imagine how I feel? I'm an orphan. You're all I have, John. You're all I have. Please don't leave me.” At the last sentence, Mary started to cry. John would have been sympathetic towards her if it hadn't been third attempt to guilt-trip him that week.

"Sorry, Mary, I'm - ticket barrier - signal is - I'm going to have to call you back. The signal is-" 

"You're supposed to still be at work! You can't use the tube trick on me, John, you work nine till -" 

"Sorry, what was that? Can't hear you, must be the – signal – Mary – sorry -" 

John hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket as he jogged out of the hospital reception, which was, incidentally, a ten-minute walk away from the nearest Underground station. He sighed; his leather briefcase was swinging in his hand as he rounded the corner and hurried down the narrow canal path, sandwiched between tall buildings and a high brick wall.  
Away from this secluded pathway, the rest of London was alive with festivities in the run-up to Christmas. As John jogged past a shop, the manager was busy spraying fake snow along the base of the window, sticking out his tongue as his workers mumbled about how tacky it looked. 

His brown brogues tapped brusquely on the cobblestone pavement; his mind too busy being elsewhere to bother paying much attention to where he was going, or what he was stepping on. Snowflakes dissolved around John’s feet as they landed on the wet ground, but John wasn’t interested in the possibility of a white Christmas. Instead, his stomach was churning uncomfortably as a mixture of emotions ran through him. He knew he'd been an idiot. He'd used the signal excuse one too many times, and he wasn't surprised that Mary was catching on. It didn't take a genius to work out what was going on. So, for that instance, he felt somewhat guilty. Betraying Mary’s trust wasn’t something he prided himself on until the adrenaline kicked in and he began running harder, feet slamming down on the pavement as he charged towards his destination. 

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice drawled from a small shaded alleyway. John stopped dead in his tracks, breathing heavily despite his long hours spent in the gym. The alleyway was even narrower than the one he’d just run down, with a lot more shade to make the speaker completely hidden. His whole face was in shadow, but John knew who it was immediately and promptly flung himself into the alleyway. 

Hands found and grabbed clothes, pulling the bodies that belonged to them closer together as John groaned, his back colliding with the wall as his partner shoved him against it. Two sets of teeth clinked together like glasses during a toast; lips pressed together as John saw stars. The man’s aftershave served as a sharp revival for John as he inhaled deeply, clinging onto the lapels of the man’s jacket. All John could taste was the mulled wine on James’ breath and sex. He closed his eyes, completely lost to the taller man holding him in place as they battled through their furious snogging session; loving every minute of it. 

"John, whoah, calm down," James gasped, his rigid army build tensing as John tugged at his collar, still trying to kiss him, desperate for attention. Through all the effort of John launching himself at his former commander, he'd hardly stopped to think about whether or not James was just as eager for it as he was. John sighed heavily, gazing up at him. James’ pupils blown wide with want, yet he looked concerned, worried. It wasn't a look that suited him, and it certainly wasn't a look that John craved to see used on himself. He loathed it. 

Reaching up and running his thumb over John's bottom lip, which was pink and only slightly swollen, James sighed, then leant forwards and kissed John's forehead softly. All John could do was roll his eyes and push himself away from James, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall as James kept him propped up. 

"I haven't seen you this desperate in a while," James sighed, letting his hand drop. "What's bothering you?" He asked it calmly, but John could still sense the concern in his voice, and he glared up at him in response; the pitying gaze was wearing thin. Maybe if he glared some more, it would go away completely? 

"Nothing's wrong," John frowned, carefully pushing James's hand away as it rose to push his hair back. "I'm just happy to see you, that’s all." He smiled up at him, earning him a raised eyebrow from James. 

"So happy that we’ve descended to teenagers, snogging one another senseless in an alleyway?" James quipped, smiling slightly. "That's not the John Watson I know. Walk with me."  
James offered John his hand, taking a step back to give John some room to move as he dropped down. John sighed and took it reluctantly, before stooping down to pick up his briefcase which had fallen in his sudden rush. He smiled up at James guiltily, who shook his head and began to walk. 

While back on London soil their relationship was a rocky, unhealthy affair in which John often found himself getting the full raw deal. James wouldn't want to spend any time with John when his lovely, tall, dark-haired husband was around, and would only bother to contact him when it suited. Then they'd meet, John would either get on his knees or bend over something, and then they'd be finished. They usually wouldn't meet again until James requested it because he never read his texts from John. 

In Afghanistan, their relationship reached entirely different levels. They'd first met six years ago in the medical tent when James had limped in complaining of an ingrowing toenail. As John was tailing the current doctor in charge (part of his training of health that would soon land him the position of camp doctor), he'd been given the task of sorting out the purpling toe. That was the ever so romantic way in which they'd first met introduced, which John never had the opportunity of telling anyone because his wife wouldn't approve of him telling stories about his secret lover, rather than his marital one. 

It didn't take long for the two men to find themselves walking, with John staring straight ahead of them. Embarrassment had pooled into John's gut the moment James had started talking, and it was showing no signs of bubbling away anytime soon. What had he been thinking? John supposed that the argument with Mary had something to do with it, but John couldn't condone this behaviour, especially from himself. He knew that most people thought him to be brash, but that was beside the point. 

He swallowed thickly, holding onto his briefcase in one hand and James's thickly calloused hand in the other. He was aware of his phone ringing dully in his pocket but paid it no mind. 

"She'll find out, eventually," James told him as they walked, squeezing his hand gently. 

"So?" John shrugged, swinging his briefcase in the other. He'd always hated these types of conversations. Too much talking, not enough time dedicated to him having an orgasm. "She already knows, and every time she asks me to stop it just makes me want to do it more. Like a reverse psychology thing, you see?" He reasoned, still looking straight ahead rather than at the man he was addressing. 

"You need to be patient with her," James sighed, which made it John's turn to roll his eyes. "She's been through a -" 

"If you say:" he clears his throat, putting on a mocking high pitched voice. "'Oh, don't be so hard on Mary, she has been through enough,' or, 'You need to be more patient with her. Take her to a fancy restaurant and renew your wedding vows.' Then you can shut up now; this isn't me being difficult; this is her; this is all her fault." 

"I told you that you were too young to get married," James sighed. "18 years old, John. That's hardly healthy." 

"My parents were 21 when they got married," John cut in coldly. "And Nan was 16 when she tied the knot. My grandad was 17, so-" 

"So it runs in your family, yes, John, you've told me before," James rolled his eyes, and John glared up at him, not at all appreciating the small smile that was playing across James's lips. "Is this the same grandfather, who, unless I'm much mistaken, secretly engaged in polyamory and had several other wives dotted across the country?" James asked, and John felt like punching him. "And aren't your parents divorced?" 

"My parents are both divorced and dead, and their death had nothing to do with the divorce if that's what you're thinking," John replied bitterly through clenched teeth. "Both completely separate incidents, unless of course, you think that a car accident in Australia and carbon monoxide poisoning in Liverpool are somehow linked?" He snapped, looking down and glaring at his feet. 

James sighed, carefully guiding John over to a bench and sitting him down on it. Once they were both seated, overlooking the brown but sparkling canal, James took both of John's hands in one, pivoting his body to face him. 

"Look," he started, and John closed his eyes for a few moments. What had happened to their snogging? He'd been enjoying that. It was much better than this talking crap. "John, listen to me," James's stern voice sounded, and John opened his eyes, glaring at him. "That's better," he smiled, and John rolled his eyes, looking away at the water. 

"I told you, 18 was too young to get married. I know you thought you were doing the right thing... Leaving for the Army the next day. You figured it'd keep her happy while you were away..." 

A duck swam idly by, and John bit his tongue, trying to stop himself from spewing out all manner of insults at the older man. 

"But you're both just as guilty as each other-" 

"I wasn't the main suspect in a fucking murder trial, James," John spat, turning to face him. "That was her. That was all her fucking doing. And, in case you've forgotten, she's completely guilty for that man's death. I know it, whether the evidence says so or not." He sighed, looking down at his knee which was shaking slightly, bobbing up and down on the light grey tiles. 

"The Police, the Press, and the jury believe her to be innocent," James sighed, nodding. "One Army doctor's word isn't going to change that, and as far as she's concerned, you're the only one who doesn't believe her. You, me, although I haven't spoken to her since this whole ordeal started - and that crazy drug addict who offered to help you. Do you remember? Down Charing Cross?" 

John sighed and nodded, pulling his hand out from James's grasp and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I remember," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead. 

He felt drained. The court case had been well over a year ago, and in that time he and James had become closer than they ever were in Afghanistan. John reasoned that it'd be hard when they went back and had to put up the walls that came with their different rankings, but John couldn't help but crave the exclusion. John missed it. He missed having James secretly all to himself, where the only people they were hiding from were their fellows' soldiers. Now, however, when it was John's murderous, lying wife who was catching on to his affair, he felt more sick than excited about getting caught. 

"I appreciate that you want to help, James, I do," John spoke quietly, looking up at him. Pale white lines shone out where his laughter lines once were, and his tanned complexion looked almost out of place in the middle of October in Paddington. John chewed his lip, an entirely different kind of desperation flooding through him in comparison to the lust filled type he'd experience only half an hour before. "But I can't keep living with a murderer. It's eating me alive. You have no idea." 

During their talk, both of them had failed to notice how the canal water had abruptly stopped shining in the sunlight and had instead transformed into a dark murky, rat infested body of water. Thick grey clouds rolled in overhead and settled comfortably above the London skyline, just as an icy breeze grazed the back of John's neck, and he shivered slightly in response to its touch. 

James leant forwards and kissed John's forehead, carefully cupping one side of his face. John's cheek rested against James's palm, and he looked up at him hopefully. 

"Please, James," John started quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "Let me come back to yours. Please. I won't get in the way. I can't go back to her. I can't. I'll even pay board if you'd like-" 

James's finger found John's lips for the second time that day, but this time it was to silence him. John gazed up at him, knowing better than to talk when James wanted to speak. 

"I can't take in any more strays..." James began, and John opened his mouth to reply. He huffed as James's entire hand covered his mouth, preventing him from talking at all, whether he wanted to or not. "And I don't think my husband would take too kindly to the idea, do you?" 

John sighed and shook his head, looking down. The only time he'd had the good fortune of meeting James's husband was after he and Mary had been invited to their house for dinner one evening. John had spent most of the night attempting to play footsie with James under the table, which only James seemed to find funny. Mary had practically throttled him in the car, but that wasn't before Geoff had taken him to one side and given more death threats than John thought was possible for one person to receive. 

Either way, John was in no hurry to meet James's choice in partner again if he could help it. 

James watched him carefully, keeping his hand over John's mouth until he was satisfied that John wasn't about to start trying to interrupt him again. 

"You're young, John... Much too young to be in this situation," James sighed, shaking his head almost as if in disbelief. Something similar to sick burbled in John's stomach, and he swallowed thickly. "And as much as I want to help you, and as much as I care about you, I will always value Geoff's happiness more than yours." 

At that, John closed his eyes, unable to look at him anymore as he hung his head. James pressed his hand a bit harder against John's mouth and used the force of it to tilt his head up, to which John could only comply. 

"John, look at me," James murmured, and John cracked one eye open, earning him a small smile from the otherwise emotionless face. "I know how much you need this. I know how difficult this whole thing has been for you, forget Mary for a moment. You need me, don't you?" 

A small drop of rain splashed onto John's nose, and he quickly wiped it away as more started to fall from the heavens. He'd always liked the rain. It reminded him where he was. It grounded him, and so he tilted his head up to the sky, staring at the clouds as he smiled to himself. Only he would have a man covering his face with his hand, being a manipulative bastard in the middle of bloody Paddington. 

"John," James jostled John's head slightly, causing John to look directly at him. "Are you listening to me?" He half barked, to which John raised an eyebrow in response. The man's temper had always been admirable. John grinned and shook his head. 

"Right," James nodded, frowning as John's eyes creased in the corners from his smile. "I should wipe that grin off your face. God knows you have no reason to smile." All John could do was shrug; James gaped at him. "Stand up." 

He quickly rose, and at the same time as James followed suit. "I asked you if you needed me," James reminded him, moving his hand away from John's mouth. "Now you need to answer." 

The rain was pouring thick and fast, now, and the younger man carefully took the older one's hand in his own. 

"I do," he nodded. "I do need you. Just..." He sighed, rummaging around in his pocket and pulling out his phone. The screen lit up in his palm, and John promptly slipped it into James's pocket. "Get me away from this. Don't give it back to me until after." 

James frowned, looking down at the pocket where John's phone now was. "After what?" 

"After you've done whatever the fuck you were going to do to me when you initially asked me to meet you," John supplied. "You've got problems too, James," he smiled up at him innocently, tilting his head to one side. James shook his head in disbelief. John grinned, quickly standing on his tiptoes and pecking James's cheek, before dragging him off to the nearest hotel. 

He failed to read just how many times Mary had tried to call him.


	2. Tuesday 3rd of February, 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I hope this is okay - if anyone has any hints or tips or criticisms or whatever then please don't hesitate to let me know! The next chapter will be relatively smutty, so if you like that stuff, stay tuned. It won't be pure smut, though. Hopefully. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> \- Natalie

“Mr Carreras has dabbled in this business before,” Mycroft explained, leaning back in his chair. “Drugs have always been a secondary source of income for him. The first…” 

“Hitmen,” Sherlock mumbled, finishing Mycroft’s sentence for him. “An agency for hitmen, pointing any potential clients in the right direction. That's what he does. Someone comes to him, states the general nature of the job, then they put them in contact with whoever think would be best suited. It's virtually impossible to trace the interactions between the business and the customers; you can't gain any real insight into who the assassin is or was. It's quite smart, in my opinion, because there's no real way to distinguish between a drug client and another. Almost complete anonymity. You can see why Carreras does it.”

“Did,” Mycroft interjected. “Did it. He's dead now, Sherlock.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted Sherlock smiling to himself. It wasn’t an expression with which John could sympathise. 

He had been the one to pull the trigger, after all, under direct orders from the secret service that John could make head nor tail of the purpose. While in Afghanistan, the bullets John had fired he’d shot for a reason. There had been numerous occasions when he'd had no other option. His moral law was to shoot to kill, with no preambles. It was a hitman's moral duty to kill whoever they'd been paid to shoot and nobody else. That's what had saved John's life, at any rate. 

Therefore, that was the rule to which John abode.

So, for the fact that if the government knew what sort of business Carreras was conducting, John couldn't understand why he had been ordered to shoot? Surely he should have been arrested? A strange kind of guilt swelled in John's stomach as he dabbled with the possibility that there was no real reason for the man to die. Should he have been arrested, he would have been made to stand before a jury; wait out the rest of his life in a prison cell. John tilted his head to the side, watching Mycroft. 

“So, why have him executed if you knew what he was up to?” John asked curiously, keeping his voice business-like and crisp. The growing bags under his eyes gave away his weariness, however. His exhaustion and resolve to finalise the situation as quickly as possible were showing, and John cursed himself for not having a poker-face. While dealing with the Holmes brothers, it was imperative never to show weakness. If Mycroft, for instance, sensed John's lack of enthusiasm, his whole mission would go to somebody else, and John would become automatically accountable for everything that went on it that apartment, both the good points of completing his mission, and receiving a frowned upon, but brilliant bonus. Waiting for him in his flat was a bottle of Glenlivet: 15 Year Old French Oak Malt Whisky. John couldn't think of anything he longed for more. “Why not tip off the police instead? Surely he wasn't that highly thought of to warrant such a secretive death? I hadn't heard of him before I read the file.” 

The smile Mycroft offered him was more like a grimace than a grin. 

“We needed an insider,” Mycroft mused, almost as though he was the host of a rather grand dinner party with all his guests listening with rapt attention and amusement. Neither Sherlock nor John felt like being polite, however, nor were they especially amused. On the contrary, Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed, his top lip curling into the beginnings of a snarl as he worked out the conclusion of Mycroft’s explanation. Slightly slower in comparison to Sherlock, John clenched his fist at his side. Had Mycroft not been so poignant in the world of espionage, John would have had a good mind to sock him in the jaw. 

“We needed someone who could work their way in without creating too much of an impact on Mr Carreras’ staff,” he continued, eyeing Sherlock hesitantly. “… Bratty enough to create a bit of a stir, intelligence sufficient enough to know not to cause too much trouble, with previous events that would guarantee a nod of approval from the governors. We needed someone who Mr Carreras would like, trust, and could separate from work.” 

John frowned and allowed himself another glance at Sherlock, who looked like he was about to be sick. He swallowed, and his usually pale complexion transformed to cold hard stone. If Mycroft elected to add more fuel to the fire crackling away under Sherlock, John feared he might explode. 

“I was just a pawn,” Sherlock whispered. “Months, Mycroft, months, I’ve spent with that man. Do you know what he was like to be around? You could have sent any old fool in there. I’m sure this trigger-happy twat would have been just as efficient-” he gestured towards John, who blinked in surprise. “But no, you used me. Me, Mycroft. Don’t you understand I have a life of my own? How many missed calls did I miss from Lestrade? Did you know they reopened the investigation into that wealthy woman’s death? Hm? I could be in France eating fucking croissants and crepes having just solved an entirely decent murder, but no, fucking no, I’m stuck in this hierarchical jungle of rogue government plots and bumbling apes who take any order they’re given!” John’s brows shot up as Sherlock rounded on him. 

“Go on then, little monkey, do us a trick. Stand on your head. Can you walk the trapeze? Haven’t you got your symbols today? Or did your master only train you to kill?!” 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft roared, and Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at him, as mad and as wild as a hyena. Mycroft’s expression softened. 

“Yes, brother, I was doing exactly that, what you are insinuating,” he spoke curtly, and John was surprised to note the level sarcasm that was oozing from his tone. Slimy, with no ounce of humility, John wondered whether Mycroft expected Sherlock actually to believe the irony, or whether it was just a tool used to rile him further. The hostess offered John some tea, but he declined quietly. A drink may have required him to stay present in the conversation for slightly longer than necessary. 

“One of the best minds in the country,” Mycroft continued, to which Sherlock scoffed. “Yes, Sherlock, the country, and I’d use it to work out whether the assassination of the late Princess Diana is correct, as the conspirators suggest, or if it was a merely an accident." Mycroft scoffed and picked up a file. "It's almost as if you don't trust me.” 

“I don't trust you,” Sherlock snapped, and John could've sworn he saw a flicker of fire pass through his icy blue eyes. “That's the whole point. Thirteen months I was with him, Mycroft. Thirteen. And what did you do?” He tilted his head to the side, resting his fists on the table. Standing at his side to him, John shuffled. “Hm? " Sherlock continued. "When did you ever consider helping me out? Did it occur to you when he hit me? When a policeman, who saw us arguing in Wimbledon offered me a card on domestic abuse? Or was it when he had me doing one of the many, hellish, hellish tasks he had me undertake? When did you ask what I'd uncovered? You never once asked to see the picture I’d taken. Did you think about me at all? Where did you tell Mother I was on Christmas Day?” 

As the argument took a sharp turn into more personal waters, John stole a glance at Mycroft, who, despite Sherlock's rampage, had been watching John with unadulterated interest. 

“I told her you were with your junkie friends, enjoying a delicious plate of cold turkey to celebrate the festive period,” Mycroft sneered, not taking his eyes off John as Sherlock immediately straightened and stilled, sticking out his bottom lip slightly. “That's all the information she needed. She's very disappointed in you, Sherlock, ignoring her calls like that. Now tell me, Watson, was Mr Carreras, a difficult man to kill?” 

John almost jumped at being verbally addressed but managed to recompose himself relatively quickly. 

“Um, well, no, sir,” John began, attempting to recompose himself. “It should have been an efficient operation, but there were a few unexpected… hurdles that I had to take a run at, sir,” he explained, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards. Mycroft’s hawk eyes caught the movement in an instant. The quick reaction from Mycroft caused John to look up, too, and when John spotted Sherlock’s mischievous, knowing smirk John grinned, then quickly looked away again through fear of being caught by Mycroft. 

Unbeknownst to him, however, Mycroft had witnessed the whole thing and was now leant back in his chair, inspecting the scene unfolding in front of him. Sherlock's hands were clasped in front of him, feet shoulder width apart as he smiled fondly at the floor. John, too, was smiling, but his display of good-humour was directed more towards Mycroft’s inkwell than anything else. 

"You two seem to be rather comfortable with one another," Mycroft mused, his sharp eyes fixated on Sherlock. Sherlock straightened but rolled his eyes, still smiling.

"Brother dear, John here is my knight in shining armour," Sherlock hummed. John tensed, and the shoulder holster tightened around his bicep, the weight of the gun keeping him grounded. "John here wasn't aware of my spy status and took me to be a victim of Mr Carraras's. He saw to it that I was well attended to."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, and John sighed.


End file.
